The Eye Burns
by Daastan Go
Summary: The first battle between two friends ends in a different manner.


**The Eye Burns**

 **Disclaimer** : Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I should be allowed to make money from this.

 **Warning** : Violence.

# # # # # #

They were benighted in a dreary gloom—a thick mist of autumn. One boy went down, falling to the rain-covered ground. Water was propelled into the air. There was not enough noise to announce his defeat; it was a silent fall in the roar of storm.

Lightning fulminated and thunder cracked down on his back like a well-oiled whip. The sound rattled through his bones, sinews trembling in answer, blood quickening to make haste to his heart. And he dropped onto his knees, head bent down in exhaustion to stare at the supine form of his friend with a wary disposition.

Rain had flattened that yellow hairs to his wet skin. They had grown out in the most peculiar fashion after being closely shorn in his childhood. There was no kind hand to guide their paths with an affection sweet. He, too, had lost it.

Raindrops trailed down his cheeks and merged together on the smooth tip of his nose to form a big round drop. Then it slid off his skin, and he blinked again like a mask had been forcefully removed from his face, leaving him vulnerable before the appraising eyes of the spectators.

He looked around, gaze roving beyond the veils, and Sharingan filled his eyes with the most red ink created by the able hands of Nature. There was nothing out here: it was a quiet place filled with a chorus of violent and turbulent sounds. Statues stood tall and still behind the ponderous tricks of rain and mist. They flanked the waterfall, two parallel and smooth-faced quiet walls.

He saw their stern expressions clearly now. Nature had wrought their miens more trouble than a craftsmen's hands. Cracks adorned the wind-beaten countenances forever frozen in challenge. War waged on in their stone-breasts, warm, struggling hearts in dead bodies made of stone—this battle was eternal.

His eyes left their fissure-riddled faces and thick moss that filled the cracks to give them a distinct green colour around the gargantuan, round cheeks. There was more around the lips, too. It gave Madara's expression an illusion of a clever smile—a thing made of stone was not even capable of. It was a ghost, just flickering there and giving away a secret that he had a mean trick up his sleeve.

He put his hand to his face, breathing hard, words reverberating and tearing through him, like a swarm of impatient flies above the cracked carapace of an aged arachnid's battered body . . . in the shimmering, searing light of sun—an engulfing dawn.

In each searing transmission of his innocent heart, he could see reason in _his brother's_ words. Now was the time to lay down his sword, cede to the conquering words of his foe, and embrace the hate he needed to fill his spirit with: take a swig, swallow it down . . . down . . . feel it poison his body and trigger the change he would need to fight him, a necessary metamorphosis to elevate his empyreal form, make it rise above the mortal battles he fought.

Rise. Rise. Rise.

His fingers reversed and cool wind gusted against his face and raindrops formed a film above the red, but it was too powerful and hungry to feel threatened. He raised his sure hand, fingers contorting, eyes seeing the foggy shine flickering on his friend's calm face. It was innocent; a smile was almost beginning to dance upon the pink lips there—the smile of an unwary child. He, too, was one, lost in the dark, ragged-red of his village's streets.

Drink. Drink. Drink.

Words kept coming from inside his breast. Wisps of his warm breaths, short and quick, fogged the air. Chakra moved through him like a violent torrent, merging there in the veins beneath his skin and bones. And it forced itself to climb onto his arm, mounting it, and took on the sharp shape of Raiton that was as smooth and cruel as his brother's heartless, vengeful blade.

He saw the face one last time and gazed at the shadow his claw cast on the boy's flushed cheek. It was cold, but his body was still warm with life. Then his hand descended, and upon impact, birds chirped loudly in his ears; the singing blade went in through his heart, crushed it with the force of the attack. Blood exploded out and splashed his face. It was warm and hot and smelt rusty. The smile that was forming on his lips stopped in its tracks. His countenance changed a little as though he had realized his fate under the sweet mantle of sleep. A wisp of its innocent splendor was still left lingering there on the face as a final farewell.

He pulled his hand out, watching the rain wash it clean. The warm sensation quivered off with the pink there. It was gone—that euphoric sensation of the kill. Guilt went away and power surged in. Gooseflesh rippled down his face and neck, and Chakra changed his form. Just two red drops on the ghostly smile there, diluting away quickly, and he knew—he just knew!

Slowly, he reached up to touch the corner of his eyes. The world looked clear, more beautiful now. Rain fell down in a manner as though he was its architect and knew the path it would take. The cracks in Hashirama's face looked uglier. There was a trace of betrayal upon his face, a little touch of it that only he could see. The cold chisel and clever hand had done their work well.

He rose to stand up on his feet and felt his body tingle with the new change. This was truly a magnificent feeling. Sorrow was on the sluggish ebb, and now, vengeance was flowing in, roaring its arrival. And waves crashed upon him relentlessly, and he felt nothing but an uplifting kind of elation that made him smile as his friend's blood flowed out unabated from the great wound. He was dead. The deed was done; and somewhere out there, his friend's unwilling prisoner had been born anew.

It did not matter to him. He walked out towards the shine flickering below the horizon that arched high above the thicket of trees. His feet sloshed through the rain at a steady pace. There was no one on his tail. His scent was fading in death. His mentor's hound would surely fail him this time.

So he walked with a steady pace and firm steps and traced the trail of a much-longed vengeance worn into the muddy path. Only he could see it, no one else. It was meant for him—only him. The new eyes burnt with a ferocious gleam. He had done what his brother had asked. Just a little more . . . just a little more, and he would be truly free . . .

# # # # # # #

 **The End**


End file.
